Aubade
by CJSpooks
Summary: Nixon stays up to watch the dawn. He broods. Winters/Nixon.


Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Band of Brothers. I just love it…lots. I make no money off of this. I mean no offense.

Author's Notes: I was inspired by the Philip Larkin poem, "Aubade" (the first stanza is included in the story…I don't own that either).

Aubade: a song or poem greeting the dawn.

_I work all day, and get half drunk at night.  
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.  
In time the curtain edges will grow light.  
Till then I see what's really always there:  
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,  
Making all thought impossible but how  
And where and when I shall myself die.  
Arid interrogation: yet the dread  
Of dying, and being dead,  
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify._

_--excerpt of "Aubade" by Philip Larkin_

Nixon couldn't sleep. That wasn't much of a surprise. Most of the men didn't know how to sleep anymore with all the hardship they had endured and the death they'd seen. Even with the most comfortable beds—hell, even just with beds instead of foxholes and mud—it was slightly difficult to silence the mind long enough to get in a real good sleep. It was all flashes and smells and screams when they closed their eyes. Nix didn't like that. That's why he drank till he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Nixon was in a decent bed, on his side, waiting for the darkness of the sky to break into a bright morning. The alcohol was wearing off so he felt like someone else inhabiting his body. There was a disconnect, a haze over everything, even his nerve endings. He could feel and not feel at the same time. He wanted to live and die at the same time. Nixon knew this constant contradiction was stupid. He should just go to sleep and let go of these negative thoughts, but there was just nothing currently helping his mind slow the fuck down and come back to the positive side of things. He was the night; where the hell was the dawn?

Nixon let out a groan as he rolled over on his other side to study the man he shared the bed with, Dick Winters. He was fully clothed, which should have disappointed Nixon if it were any moment other than now. His breathing was evenly paced, comforting in its perfection of in and out. His red hair was sticking out in strange directions, a rare sight indeed. Nixon realized how long Dick's eyelashes were. It was always the smallest details that distracted him the most. He reveled in how relaxed and unassuming Dick's form was while asleep. Nixon wished he could keep his best friend frozen like that forever—not in harm's way, in a comfortable bed next to him right before dawn's first light. He prayed for time to just stop. But of course, no one heard his prayers anymore.

Nixon felt grim. He felt heavy. He knew once the light came, it'd be okay. The war would go on…and on and on and…on. They'd be on the move again. All young men would ride in trucks or marching with their death dates somewhere stamped upon them in invisible ink. He suddenly wished his uniform had more places to stash flasks of whiskey. He shivered. He saw some men with missing limbs and lots of holes and red red red blood. Nixon shook his head. Why were these thoughts always around? It was as if they were chained to his very being. He hoped that was only a war thing or else his post-war life would be more of a hell than his present state. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He wished that the army could just wipe his memory clean of everything here in Europe. Hell, he wished he could forget a lot of the stuff before that. Someone should take the death and destruction just as easily as taking Cathy, his kid, and his damn dog away. Maybe it would be easier. Just maybe he could get some peace.

Nixon wondered if he even deserved peace. He could just chuckle at the depressing thoughts in his head sometimes. It was truly amazing how low his emotions could go. He did and didn't want to sink along with his emotions, but where was up? How could he get there? He glanced at Dick's sleeping form again. He wondered if this man was the answer. He could chuckle at that thought too. Could Dick bring him back up to the point where he could function again? How the hell could he do that? More importantly, why would he do it? Sure, they were best friends. But Dick didn't deserve such a pathetic sad sack for a confidant. He deserved only the best. And Nixon felt like he was far from it.

Nixon realized that the glow of the sun was starting to make its way upon the world. He eased himself onto his back, hands clasped under his head. He wondered if his brooding sessions were normal. Not that it truly mattered. At least they were all internal. At least his last bottle of Vat 69 was currently carefully tucked away in Dick's footlocker and not in his hand.

"Nix," came a whisper.

Nixon smiled. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"You didn't sleep." It wasn't a question. Dick chose his inflection carefully.

"Nah, I'll just sleep through the morning. No one needs me anyhow."

"I need you."

It was three simple words, each a single syllable. Nixon felt his emotions rise. He could chuckle at the thought that a night of brooding could be erased almost completely by three small words uttered by Dick.

Dick leaned over and softly touched his lips to Nixon's. Nixon moved forward to go in for a deeper kiss. He tried not to seem too desperate, but he felt this kiss was needed more than wanted at this moment. As his mouth searched for salvation in Dick's, Nixon came to the realization:

Brooding was his aubade. Dick was his dawn.


End file.
